


Night Class

by reciprocityfic



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 23:14:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15302172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reciprocityfic/pseuds/reciprocityfic
Summary: Michonne gets more than just an education when she takes an art class taught by Rick Grimes at her local branch of Atlanta's Community College.Part of the Richonne Writing Network's Trope Thursday Challenge at Richonne Just Desserts. Prompt Category: Career!Rick. Prompt Name: Teacher!Rick





	Night Class

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This was written for the Trope Thursday Challenge put together by Richonne Just Desserts. My prompt category was Career!Rick - more specifically, Teacher!Rick.
> 
> Love and thanks to you all.

_Sasha: Why are you taking this class again?_

She sighed as she read her best friend's text message. As she walked down a hallway at the branch of Atlanta's community college that was the closest to her apartment, glancing at room numbers as she passed each doorway, she moved her thumbs over the screen of her phone.

_Michonne: There's some new initiative at work about furthering everyone's education and keeping our knowledge fresh and up to date. I mean I get it in a way, but the last thing I want to do after working a ten hour day and lugging cases around to work on when I get home is go to night school :/_

She hit 'send' and threw her phone in her bag, because if she didn't start paying more careful attention to where she was, she would end up passing up the room. She was already five minutes late for the first class, and getting lost wouldn't help things.

The hallway was empty, the only sound coming from the click of her heels on the tile floor as she walked. Her feet hurt from being in stilettos all day, and she made a mental note to throw a pair of flats in her bag on Thursday.

She squinted as she tried to make out the numbers etched on the shiny, gold plaques to the right of each room's door.

_1108, 1110A, 1110B, 1112…_

She slowed as she reached the next room. 1114. Finally. Her feet were absolutely killing her. She couldn't wait to sit down.

She glanced down at the watch on her wrist. She was exactly seven minutes late, but the door was still open, and there wasn't any noticeable sound coming from inside the room, so she took it as a positive sign she wouldn't be interrupting too much when she walked in.

And sure enough, she found the place quiet when she entered. The handful of people there were fiddling their phones or reading or writing on some papers in front of them as they sat in the far left corner of the large room, at a few tables arranged in a circle. Everyone was still strangers, so the lack of chatter apart from the occasional short aside was understandable.

She looked at what she assumed was the instructor's desk at the head of the circle, and found it empty. She smirked. A teacher late on the first day? Hopefully they would be as lackadaisical with their grading and assignments as they were with their schedule and promptness. If she was at all lucky, they would be.

Since nothing had started yet, she took a moment to look around the spacious, open classroom. It was lined with easels and sinks, closets and shelves filled with various paints, paper, brushes, pencils, and other miscellaneous art supplies. A kiln stood in one of the back corners. There were several long, rectangular tables with various stools placed around them, which she guessed were workspaces for the various projects and pieces they would be completing over the next few months.

Despite her reluctance at having to fit night classes into her already too-busy life, she couldn't help the small thrill that ran through her as she took everything in. She'd been wanting to take some sort of art class for the longest time, but she never had room in her loaded schedules during both high school and college. She supposed she should look at this as an opportunity rather than a burden, but then she thought of all the work she still had to do when she got home in two and a half hours, and she felt a headache coming on.

"We're over here!"

She turned her head at the words, and saw an older gentleman seated at one of the tables in the back, looking at her with his armed raised. She wasn't sure how long she'd been standing there, gazing around the room. She probably seemed lost, or confused. So she sent the man a small smile, nodding her thanks, and made her way towards the rest of her classmates.

She took a seat at one of the ends on the circle, and set her bag down on the floor next to her feet after she fished her phone out of it. The time caught her eye as the screen illuminated.

_7:15_

She frowned. She wouldn't mind at all if this ended up being an easy class. She hoped it would be, in fact, but she also hoped the teacher cared about it. At least a little.

She saw a notification for a new text message blink at the top of her screen.

_Sasha: And how does taking an art class help keep your knowledge of criminal law current?_

She smiled at her friend's question. Sasha was right. An introductory art class wasn't ever going to help her in court.

_Michonne: Hey, my boss said we could take something in whatever area we wanted to, and I've taken enough law classes to last a lifetime. And I've always wanted to take an art class but never had a chance to._

Sasha's reply came immediately.

_Sasha: You were literally an art history minor in college._

_Michonne: I mean a hands-on art class. A class where you like paint and draw and sculpt and stuff._

"Sorry I'm late!"

She looked up from her phone to see a man rushing into the room, a bag slung over his shoulder and a paper coffee cup gripped in his left hand. As he approached the front desk and placed both the drink and his briefcase down on the top, she glanced at the time on her phone again.

_7:20_

It could've been worse, she supposed.

"Again, I'm so, so sorry I'm late," the man apologized again, sounding slightly out of breath. He walked around to the front of the desk, and sat down on the edge, stretching his legs out straight and crossing his feet at the ankles.

"Because of that, let's jump right into things. Welcome to Fundamentals of Art. I'm Rick Grimes, and I'm gonna be your teacher for the next few months. Call me Rick - no 'Professor', or 'Mr. Grimes', or anything like that. Just Rick."

He was younger than she expected him to be. In her head, she pictured someone old and gray teaching her how to sketch and paint. Instead, this guy looked to be her age, or a few years older. He had brown hair that was just starting to curl at the ends, and his jaw was covered with a light stubble that came from not shaving for a day or two. He was lean, but still seemed strong, and his hands were large and his fingers were long as he used them to gesture while speaking words she wasn't hearing. He wore a dark gray t-shirt and jeans that looked like they'd seen better days. His feet were clad in light brown boots.

Not what she was expecting, at all.

Her phone vibrated in her hand, breaking her out of her study of her new teacher.

_Sasha: Sculpting? Are you allowed to have visitors in your class? I wanna see you try to sculpt._

_Michonne: Shut your mouth. Wait till you see all the cool things I make. You're gonna regret questioning my skills._

She felt a gentle kick to the leg of her chair, and turned abruptly to look at the girl to sitting next to her to ask her what the hell that was for, when she realized everyone in the class was staring at her, including her professor. Rick Grimes.

She set her phone down on the table, and plastered a bright smile on her face.

"Oh, sorry. What'd I miss?"

"We were gonna go around the room and introduce ourselves," he told her, eyes squinted and head tilted just slightly to the right. "Tell each other our names, and our reasons for taking this class."

"Oh! Sure," she said, purposely making her tone eager and open to try and make up for being in her own world. Rick didn't look exactly  _upset_ , but she was definitely reading something on his face that she couldn't really interpret.

"Um, I'm Michonne Morgan. I'm a lawyer, and there's this new policy in my office about furthering our education and we were told we could take a class in whatever subject we wanted to. I've always wanted to take and art class, so...here I am!"

Everyone smiled in her direction, except Rick. He was still peering at her with that odd look on his face.

After another moment, he finally sent her a half-smile, lips pressed together.

"Nice to meet you, Michonne," he said, before glancing down at her phone that still sat on the table in front of her. Exhaling slowly, he shifted his gaze to look at the entire class.

"Look, guys," he began, "I know this is a night class, and it's for beginners, and that you all have lives that are probably really busy outside of this room. But I think we can still make this class something special. I hate to be a hardass on the first day, but art is a unique kind of subject where the stuff you produce doesn't just come from your brain. It comes from something inside you that you have to learn to tap into, and hopefully I can help you start to do that in the time we have together.

"I want this class to have a relaxed and open feel to it, because that sort of environment allows your creativity to flourish the best. But there are also other aspects and facets in that environment, and things to do that are gonna help you tap into that place I want you all to get to. One of them is to kind of let everything else that's clouding your mind and taking up your energy fall away, and focus and what you're feeling and what you're doing and what's in front of you in the moment. And it's not just what you're doing or thinking that influences that ability to let go of everything and live in your art - it's what the people around you are doing, too.

"Now like I said, I know you all have lives outside of here, and if you need to be in contact with your kids or spouse or family sometimes during class, that's okay. But I guess what I'm saying is, for your own benefit and the benefit of your classmates," he said, looking back at her, "if it's not important or necessary, please put your phones away and don't check them until after class."

He was speaking to the whole class, sure. But Rick Grimes was also speaking to  _her_ , specifically, and she felt like she was back in high school and had just been scolded by her teacher.

She sent him her own tight-lipped smile, and then grabbed her phone. She had a new message from Sasha, but she didn't read it, and instead started typing her own text.

_Michonne: Sorry, have to go. Just got yelled at for having my phone out like I'm in high school or something._

"Okay. Now that we have that out of the way, let's keep going," Rick instructed.

She reached down to drop her phone back into her bag as the next name was given. When she sat up, she crossed her arms over her chest, and turned to the girl who'd kicked her chair and tried to pay attention to what she was saying. But she was miffed, and slightly embarrassed, and she was annoyed at Rick Grimes for slightly embarrassing her. She couldn't focus, on found herself glancing at him out of the corner of her eye every so often. Sometimes, she caught him looking back at her, as if checking to make sure she was following his rules.

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. She could feel her headache getting worse.

She hoped Rick Grimes wasn't going to be a pain in her ass.

* * *

"Damn, Michonne."

She glanced up from her pad thai and looked across the table to find Sasha smirking at the screen on Michonne's phone. Michonne's brow furrowed, and she set the pair of chopsticks she was using on her napkin before reaching over and grabbing her phone back from Sasha. She only became more confused when she still saw the page she'd pulled up on the college's website that held Rick Grimes' bio, credentials, and picture.

"What?"

"You're right, 'Chonne. Not what I was expecting."

The corner of Sasha's mouth was still turned up, and Michonne frowned.

"Yeah, I know. I texted you that last night."

"You told me that your professor looked different than what you'd pictured. You didn't tell me he was hot."

"Oh my God," Michonne said with a groan, closing out the page and dropping her phone onto the table.

"What? It's true!"

"Since when are you into white guys?"

"I'm not. But if I was, I'd be into him," Sasha told her with a shrug of her shoulders.

"You've got to be kidding me," Michonne mumbled as she picked up her chopsticks and tried to once again focus on the food in front of her.

"Come  _on_ , Michonne. I know you can appreciate an attractive man, even if he isn't your type."

"Sorry, I don't see it."

"You're just bitter he yelled at you for having your phone out."

"Oh my God," Michonne repeated, placing her chopsticks in her bowl and pushing it to the side for now. She sighed, and then looked at Sasha, who was staring back at her expectantly, eyebrows raised.

"Okay, I may have exaggerated a little bit," she admitted. "He didn't exactly  _yell_  at me. He just went on this long tangent on how he didn't want our phones out during class unless it was a family emergency, because we needed to let everything else in our lives 'fall away' and focus on what's there in the moment or something. It was pretentious as fuck. And then he passive-aggressively glared at me for the rest of the class."

"Yep," Sasha concluded, a smile on her face. "You're still bitter. I knew it."

"It was embarrassing! Now everyone will know me as the woman who broke the rules within the first five minutes of class."

"Okay, but that aside," Sasha said, pulling her phone out of her pocket and pressing away at the screen, "you have to admit he's hot."

Sasha leaned forward and shoved her phone in Michonne's face. Once her eyes adjusted, Michonne found Rick's faculty page staring her in the face again. Michonne scrunched up her nose, and Sasha rolled her eyes.

"Sash, what do you want me to say? He doesn't do it for me."

"I want you to look at his picture and tell me at least one thing that's attractive about him."

"Why is this so important to you?" Michonne wondered aloud, but she grabbed the bottom of the phone and brought it closer to herself, and gazed at the picture of his face for a few more moments.

"He has a nice nose, I guess."

"A nice  _nose_?"

"I don't know. It's straight. Kinda has a perfect slope."

"You're impossible," Sasha told her as she took her phone back.

"Can we not spend the rest of our lunch talking about how hot my best friend thinks my teacher is?"

"I  _guess_ ," Sasha said, drawing out the s sound as she grinned at her friend. She glanced down at her phone to check the time, and frowned.

"I actually have to get going. If I'm late for my shift, Abe's gonna kill me."

"He's not gonna kill you," Michonne teased. "He'd never kill you, because he  _looooves_  you."

"Michonne," Sasha scolded. She was trying to sound stern, Michonne knew, but the light blush that warmed her cheeks at the mention of her new boyfriend eased the bite of her tone considerably.

"Hey, if you're going to dish it out, you're going to get it back."

Sasha glared at Michonne as she rose from her chair, so Michonne conceded.

"I'm just teasing, girl. Go. Put out some fires and save the day."

Sasha squeezed Michonne's shoulder as she rounded the table, and then leaned down to press a quick kiss on her cheek.

"Talk to you later?" Sasha asked as she started to walk away, even though she knew the answer to the question already.

"Of course," Michonne confirmed. "I'll text you."

Sasha left, and Michonne pulled her bowl back towards her, and started to twirl some noodles around her chopsticks. As she brought them to her mouth, she found they were cold, to her disappointment. She looked down and checked her watch.

_Shit_. More time had passed than she thought. She rushed through the rest of her lunch so she could head back to her firm. Before she got up, she picked up her phone and checked her email one more time. When she refreshed and found nothing new, she went to toss her phone in her bag, but she stopped suddenly, with a jerk.

She hesitated awkwardly with her hand in mid-air for a second or two, and then sat up without putting her phone away. Before she even knew what she was doing, she opened her internet app, went into her history, and clicked on the link to one of her new school's faculty pages.

She watched as Rick Grimes' picture loaded, and then studied it once more, eyes narrowed. She took in his gentle smile, the crinkles around his blue eyes that were just starting to form. She looked at his clean-shaven face, the stubble from last night absent, and his dark brown curls, that were longer than they were presently, tucked behind his ears. She stared at his perfect nose.

After gazing for a minute, she rolled her eyes and closed the page in haste, dropping her phone in her bag like she'd planned to originally. She got up, pushed her chair in, and began to walk towards the door of the restaurant.

Yeah. She didn't get it at all.

* * *

Fundamentals of Art was  _hard._ And time-consuming.

The material wasn't the type of thing she could speed-read and cram after she was done with her work from the firm, before she went to bed. It took consideration, focus, and attention to detail.

Most of all, it took  _time_. And time was something she didn't have.

"This class would be more fun if I wasn't constantly busy," Michonne told Sasha over speakerphone one evening, as she sat on her couch with a pencil and sketchbook. It was 11:00 at night, and she was  _tired._ But it was also Wednesday night, which meant she had to have this drawing done by 6:00 pm tomorrow evening. So, she was up until she finished.

"You're not having fun?" Sasha asked.

Michonne sighed, and put down her pencil.

"Maybe 'not having fun' isn't the right choice of words. I just can't put as much time into the work as I'd like."

"Ah, there's the perfectionist I know and love coming out."

"Trust me, that's not it," Michonne said with a dry chuckle. "Honestly? I'm kind of half-assing everything."

Sasha laughed.

"And how's Professor Grimes taking that? Has he called you into his office to tell you you're being a  _bad girl_?"

"I'm gonna hang up on you, Sash."

"Okay, okay. I'll stop," Sasha assured her. "I still don't understand how you don't think he's attractive, though."

"It's not like I think he's  _ugly_. I just don't find him hot."

"Whatever. But for real. How is Mr. Grimes taking it?"

"Not too bad, actually," Michonne told her friend. "He grades our assignments on completion, not quality. We haven't had any projects or tests yet, but I'm cautiously optimistic."

"So you don't hate his guts anymore?" Sasha asked.

"I guess not. He's not the pain in the ass I thought he would be. At least, not  _entirely_. He still looks at me weird sometimes."

"You two are gonna fall in love. I'm calling it now."

"Oh my God. I'm not just gonna hang up on you, Sasha. I'm gonna  _stop calling you_."

* * *

She got a C+ on her first graded assignment.

She gawked at the grade written on front of the folder that contained her sketch and the summary she'd typed up about it. The red ink starkly contrasted the stiff, light yellow paper it was written on, as if cruelly mocking her.

Her favorite art professor had passed back their quarterly projects near the end of class, and she heard him dismiss her peers in some small part of her brain, along with an echo of people moving and standing and making their way towards the door.

But she remained seated, staring at her graded project as it taunted her from its place on the table in front of her.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd received a C.

"Ms. Morgan? Everything okay?"

Rick Grimes' voice pulled her out of her shocked state, and she looked up from that horrid folder to find the room empty save for the two of them. He stood over her, eyes squinted strangely, as they were the majority of the time he looked at her.

"Yeah," she mumbled. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You sure? You kinda look sick or somethin'."

"Nope," she lied with a pop of her lips, placing her assignment in her bag and beginning to stand. "Everything's great."

He gazed at her for a moment more before nodding.

"Okay, then. See you in a few days."

He walked away from her, and she took three steps towards the door before freezing in place, like a deer caught in headlights.

She glanced at her teacher out of the corner of her eye, gathering up his stuff as he sat at his desk.

_Fuck it_ , she decided. Everything  _wasn't_ okay. And if Rick Grimes was going to be a pain in her ass, she sure as hell was going to be a pain in his.

She turned on her heel and approached the head of the circle of tables.

"Mr. Grimes?"

He raised his head to look at her. To her surprise, she found an expectant look on his face, almost as if he'd known she wasn't going to be leaving the room without speaking to him.

"Please, call me Rick."

"Oh, of course.  _Rick_ ," she corrected, plastering a smile on her face and pulling out the cheeriest, sugary-sweet tone she could muster, that she usually only used when trying to be friendly with a client or businessman or associate who she more or less wanted to punch in the face.

"You see," she continued, rifling around in her bag and pulling out that dreaded yellow folder, "I received a C on my quarter-of-the-semester project."

She placed the assignment on his desk and watched as he smoothed his hands over it.

"A C  _plus_ , actually," he told her, pointing at the little, red-ink cross.

She registered the levity in his tone. He was trying to lighten the mood in preparation for what they both knew could be an unpleasant conversation ahead, but she in no way appreciated his efforts.

When he glanced up and saw the way her pleasant demeanor had soured completely, the little smirk that turned up the corner of his lips fell immediately, and a bolt of satisfaction slivered up her spine.

He sighed, and ran a hand through his curly, brown hair.

"Look, Michonne -"

"Please, call me Ms. Morgan," she interrupted, turning the statement he'd made a few minutes ago on its head completely. "I may be your student, but I'm not a child."

He stared up at her blankly for a few moments, and she could tell that her request threw him. She knew she was being difficult. Pretentious. That was her intention.

He opened and closed his mouth twice before biting down on his lower lip. He closed his eyes and flexed his fingers before speaking again.

" _Ms. Morgan_. So, obviously, this wasn't the grade you were hoping for or expecting. And I'm sorry about that. But luckily, there are three more major projects coming up this semester you can use to boost your grade. And as long as you keep completing and turning in your homework, that'll help, too."

"But, I - how do you even  _grade_  an art project?"

Her cool and collected demeanor started to slip away, and she could feel her heartbeat begin to speed up in her chest.

"I mean, isn't art subjective?" she protested, the pitch of her voice raising as she threw her hands out to motion towards her project. "Sure,  _you_ gave me a C on that, but who's to say some art teacher somewhere else wouldn't give me an A? How am I supposed to know that this grade is actually fair, and not a product of some leftover grudge you have because of that first day?"

His eyes widened almost incredulously, and he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Ms. Morgan, are you actually saying I lowballed your grade as payback for you having your phone out in class  _once_?"

She knew it sounded ridiculous. And, again, she  _knew_ she was being difficult. But she was  _irritated_ with him, and nothing he was saying or doing was helping decrease that irritation.

"What I'm  _saying_ ," she huffed, crossing her own arms over her chest, "is that I don't understand how you can objectively grade a subject that's inherently subjective."

"Okay, yes," he said, glancing down at the watch on his wrist briefly. "An art project, overall, is subjective. But there are certain skills that I was looking for - skills that we've been working on for the past several weeks, and skills that I can objectively see and judge. That's what I base my grades on. Now I need to be going, but if you look in your folder," he said, pushing her project back towards her, "there's a rubric that clearly states everything I was looking for and how -"

"I'm sorry," she interrupted, "but is there someone else in the art department that I could ask to also judge my work on these skills you were looking for? Then we can compare your grade with theirs."

He gaped at her.

"Well, is there?" she asked again.

He exhaled, and dropped his head into his hand.

"Ms. Morgan," he muttered, voice muffled by his palms covering his mouth. He took a slow breath, and then sat up, snatching her folder back and pulling out the drawing she'd turned in.

It was a sketch of her refrigerator. Their assignment had been, simply, to draw something. To draw anything they wanted, to the best of their ability. And then to write 1000 words on what they drew, why they drew it, and how what they learned in class had helped them draw it.

She'd been sitting on the counter in her kitchen the evening before it was due, she'd been hungry, and she'd drawn her refrigerator.

"Okay, look," he began, gesturing at the picture. "The outline of each element is way too dark compared to the rest of what you drew. The placement of the shading and shadows makes no sense based off where you indicated the light in the sketch was coming from. I see a  _ton_  of eraser marks, and working on incorporating small errors into your work instead of erasing them is something I've been stressing to everyone since this class began."

She felt her cheeks warm as he tucked her drawing back into the folder and pulled out the short essay she'd written.

"And your write-up is vague, to say the least. You say nothing about why you chose to draw what you did. Hell, you don't even mention what you drew until the second-to-last sentence. If I didn't have the sketch sitting next to me, I would've had no idea you were talking about a  _refrigerator_."

"You  _said_  we could draw whatever we wanted," she defended, with none of the bravado she'd possessed only minutes ago.

"I know I did. I'm not upset with the object you chose. I'm upset you said nothing about it in your essay.

"And, just a suggestion, if you want to pick a random household object to draw for your next project, too - because for  _some_  reason I suspect that's what you did this time around - pick one with cleaner lines and more defined shaping. A lamp, or table, or something. They're a lot easier to get right, and have much less detail to screw up. And in your write-up,  _please_ include a reason you chose to draw it. I don't care if you have to make it up. But give me  _something._ "

She didn't know what to say. He was embarrassing her. He was embarrassing her for a  _second_ time, and she'd only known him for a handful of weeks.

Damn Rick Grimes.

"Honestly, Ms. Morgan?" he sighed. "It kinda seemed like you half-assed the whole thing. Sorry if that sounds harsh."

She wanted to be mad at him, but she couldn't. Because he was right . She  _had_ half-assed it.

She was just...irritated. Irritated that he saw right through her. That he recognized her project for what it was: a sketch and essay she'd thrown together at the last minute while she was hungry and tired, just so she could turn something in the next day.

"The problems with your project and drawing are the same problems I've been seein' in all the homework you've turned in so far."

She frowned at his words.

"Then why didn't you  _tell me about them_ before I had to turn in a graded assignment?"

"I did. I write feedback on everyone's homework before I hand it back."

"Oh," she breathed.

She thought back, and vaguely recalled seeing his handwriting scratched on the back of each paper he returned to her. She'd assumed it was some kind of note stating that she'd received full credit for her work, and she'd never bothered to read it.

"I just thought you didn't care," he told her.

Her shoulders slumped, and she cast her gaze towards the ceiling.

"It's not that I don't care," she said. "I do care. Or I  _want_ to care, at least. I love art. I was an art history minor in college, for God's sake. It's just hard to find enough time to properly do the assignments when I'm bringing cases home with me every night that I have to work on beforehand.

"My actual career has to come first. You told us on that first day you understood that," she reminded him. "That we have lives outside of here and we can't always solely focus on this class."

"I do understand that," he promised her. "But I'm also not going to give anyone a grade they don't deserve."

She nodded once. She got what he was saying, even though she wished she didn't.

As she reached out and grabbed her yellow folder off his desk, he spoke.

"You know, Ms. Morgan, you're right. You're a lawyer, not an artist. Sure, you have this education initiative at your office, but in the long run, this class isn't gonna help you in the courtroom. It's not necessary to get an A. A C is passing. You'll get the credits with that grade."

She paused in the middle of putting her project back into her bag, looked at him, and scoffed.

"I was salutatorian of my class at NYU. I don't pass classes with C's, thank you very much."

He raised his hands up in front of him at the edge in her tone, but she swore she could see faint traces of a smirk that was trying to take over his face.

"Okay, okay. Just givin' you your options."

"Well, thanks, but no thanks."

She heard him chuckle under his breath as she turned towards the door. She hadn't even had the chance to move before he stopped her.

"Ms. Morgan?"

She looked back, and found him gazing at her with a thoughtful look on his face. His was squinting, the way he always did when he looked at her.

"Yeah?" she asked.

"If you wanted, we could meet here every other Friday night for a couple hours, to try and help you out with the stuff you seem to be missin'. A sort of office hours slash tutoring, if you will. I could give you a couple bonus points for each session, to raise your grade a little. And then hopefully the extra time will help you do better on your next project."

She peered at him as she mulled over his offer, tapping the fingers of her right hand against her thigh. Friday and Saturday nights were the only free time she allotted for herself. She usually spent it with Sasha and a few of their other friends. At times, looking forward to Friday night was the only thing that got her through the week. She hated to give that day away to someone else, even if it was only every other one.

But she  _could_ use the help, and the bonus points, especially. She was dead serious about  _not_ passing this class with only a C. Not even with a C+.

"Okay," she told him.

"Great," he said with a nod. "I can't do tomorrow, but next Friday we should be all set."

"Yeah, sounds good. I already have plans tomorrow, anyways."

After a beat of silence, she started for the door again.

"Goodnight, Ms. Morgan," he called after her.

She paused for a moment.

"You don't have to call me Ms. Morgan," she told him. She didn't turn around, but she did glance at him over her shoulder. "You can call me Michonne."

He smiled at her.

"Goodnight, Michonne."

It was only the second time she'd heard him say her name. The first time, she'd been too upset to listen to the way he said it.

But this time, she let the sound permeate her eardrums.

She'd never really had anyone say her name like that. Gently and slowly, in that deep, lazy southern drawl of his, that caressed each syllable.

Something in her stomach fluttered.

Her eyes widened, but the sensation came and went so quickly that she didn't have time to process or interpret it. She shook her head back and forth to clear her head, and immediately decided that she'd pretend it never happened, that she'd never felt it.

She pressed her lips together in a closed-mouth smile, and nodded once in his direction.

"Goodnight, Rick."

* * *

"Hey, sorry I'm late."

She looked up from her seat on the floor in front of the door to their normal classroom to find Rick rushing up to her. She'd spent the last twenty minutes playing some mindless word game on her phone, and was going to give him ten more minutes before she left and shot him an email saying she thought he wasn't coming.

He  _sucked_ at being on time. To the point where it was borderline ridiculous. He'd been late for all but a handful of their classes so far, and she'd heard some of her classmates talking about it while waiting for him to arrive on a few occasions. She wondered if she should mention it.

He shot her a half-smile before he pulled his keys out of his pocket, flipping through several before finding the one to their room. She got up as he pushed the door open and flicked on the lights. The room was quiet and dim, as was the rest of the building. Most people had already put work and school aside for the time being and dove into their weekends, and the school was mostly empty.

"And sorry for pushing the time back to 8:00," he apologized again, as he walked further into the room. He forewent his desk and instead took a seat at one of the tables, pulling out the chair next to him for her as he did. "I know it's kinda late, and I hate to take up almost all of your Friday night, but some things came up that were out of my control."

He sounded slightly upset, she noted, as she sat down beside him, and took out her pencil and sketchbook.

"You're kinda late, yourself," she said back, and he reached out to the phone he'd laid on the table, pressed a button on the side to light up the screen, and read the time with a groan.

_8:27_

"Shit, I'm sorry."

"I don't mean to start tonight off on the wrong foot," she began cautiously, "but it might be easier to take your class more seriously if showed up on time a little more."

He groaned again, and sat back in his chair.

"I'm not trying to be rude, I swear. It can just seem unprofessional. Like  _you_  don't take the class seriously."

"I know," he mumbled, running a hand over his face. "I  _know_ , trust me. It's just my fuckin' ex…"

Her eyes widened at the swear word, and she bristled at the mention of an ex. What he'd said didn't offend her, but she didn't expect it coming from his mouth. She didn't really know if she should be privy to his personal life, either. He was her teacher, after all, even if he was only a year or two older than her.

"Oh," she muttered, shifting in her seat. He noticed her hesitation, and frowned.

"I'm sure you don't want to hear about that stuff. And don't worry, I'm not offended. I get what you're saying about me being late, and I'm trying to fix it, I swear."

He closed his eyes, and laid both of his hands flat on the tabletop. She watched as he took two deep, steadying breaths, and then opened his eyes, looking at her and smiling apologetically.

"What do you say we get started, yeah?"

He got up to get supplies. She opened up her sketchbook, but still kept an eye on him as he moved around the room, and her lips started to turn down.

He looked  _tense_. And annoyed, as he had when he'd apologized for pushing their meeting back. And stressed, and tired. His hair was mussed, black t-shirt slightly wrinkled, and there were bags under his eyes.

She tapped her pencil against the spiral of her notebook. She didn't know what was going on (other than the fact that it had something to do with an ex), but she kind of felt bad for him.

And when she realized that, she almost laughed. If someone had told her when she got her project back and saw a C, that in a small handful of days she'd feel sympathy for the man…

She continued to stare at him as he came back to the table.

"Okay," he said, laying the various papers and tools he'd retrieved out in front of them. "So, you have anything you want to start with, or you wanna just take it from the top?"

When she didn't answer, he looked over at her, and furrowed his brow when he saw the expression on her face.

"Everything alright?"

She didn't say anything right away, as she considered what her next move would be. She still had reservations about being immersed in his issues outside of the classroom. It wasn't something that one typically did with a teacher.

But she found her sympathy - and, if she was being honest, curiosity - was getting the best of her, so she forged ahead, despite her uncertainty.

"You know," she told him, "if you need to vent, I'm here."

He stared at her wordlessly. She started to feel self-conscious, and was about to ask him to forget she said anything, when a kind smirk turned up his lips.

He turned in his chair, so that he was facing her, and shook his head.

"Nah. I don't want to burden you with that. And I'm here to help  _you_ , not the other way around."

She rotated in her seat so she was facing him, as well.

"It's no problem, really. We'll meet up again, and you'll have plenty of time to tutor me. I've been told I'm a very good listener."

It was true. Whenever Sasha had a problem, wanted advice, or just needed to get something off her chest, Michonne was the first person she called. Her other friends, too, went to her whenever they had something they needed to let out.

He bit his lip, eyes moving away from her and darting around the room, before opening his mouth. She thought he was about to reject her offer again, but he surprised her.

"My ex…" he mumbled.

He sighed heavily, and gave her a glance before going on.

"Sure you wanna do this?"

She scrunched her face up at the caution in his tone.

"Can it really be that bad? You dealing drugs together? Got someone tied up in your basement?"

She leaned closer, and placed her right hand over her heart.

"I won't say anything, I swear," she assured him in a faux whisper. "Therapist-patient confidentiality, and all."

She heard him let out a soft, breathy chuckle, and the corner of her mouth began to twitch up at the sound. She'd been trying to make him laugh. To alleviate some of the heaviness that seemed to be weighing on him.

She was about to sit back in her chair again, when he leaned in towards her also, until their faces were inches apart.

And she froze.

She'd never been this close to him before. Didn't have any reason to. He was just her teacher.

But she'd leaned in, and so had he, and here they were - close. Close enough that she could see the small specks of dark blue scattered in sky blue eyes. Close enough that she noticed the nearly-faded freckles that dusted the bridge of his nose. Close enough that she could  _smell him._  His scent was fresh, and clean, and sort of woodsy? She couldn't put her finger on it. But she knew she'd never encountered anything like it before.

"Wouldn't you have to break that confidentiality," he whispered back to her - and she could feel the cool wisp of his breath against her skin as he did, "if I was doing somethin' illegal, or endangering another person?"

Both of their eyes shifted at the same time, and they locked gazes. The look in his eyes was familiar to her; it was the same way he  _always_  seemed to look at her, except this time his eyes were all the way open instead of squinted. And maybe that was responsible for the change, but that look was changing in her mind, right in front of her. It was less weird, now, and more  _scary_.

She knew that look. It was the one she'd seen many times, across a bar or a room or an office. The kind that usually led to an exchange of names and conversation and sometimes phone numbers. The kind that could bring about a date or two or three. The kind that could create a night together, or a fling. And the kind that, every so often, started something rare and beautiful.

Yes, she'd seen that look before - though never quite as intense as the one in front of her now.

And that look was scary. But a kind of scary that was  _good_ , rather than bad. A pleasant sort of scary scary that put the same flit and twist in her stomach that she'd felt the other day, when he'd said her name.

"I won't tell if you won't," she breathed, the words coming from some small place in her brain that was still aware of their conversation, of the back-and-forth that started all this.

She felt like she was talking about more than their so-called therapy session.

Their eyes never left each other's, though she could see him smile in her peripheral vision. And for half of a second, she could've  _sworn_  his eyes darted to her lips.

In that moment, she thought he was going to kiss her.

In that moment, she  _wanted_  him to kiss her.

But then, out of nowhere, he leaned back and sat up straight in his chair. And that tiny part of her brain that was focused on something other than him and his face and his lips must've jump-started her into action, because before she knew it she was sitting upright, too.

"Well, lucky for you, I'm not sellin' drugs, nor am I holding someone hostage in my basement," he said, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. His voice broke at the end of his statement, and she heard him cough and then clear his throat to try and cover it up.

She was still reeling from being tugged out of their trance so abruptly. Shocked that there had even been any kind of  _trance_  to begin with.

She felt as if someone had dumped a cooler's-worth of ice water over her head. It made her response come just a second too late.

"Oh...oh!" she said, her voice too loud and too high and too full of fake enthusiasm. She cringed inside, but pressed on, hoping if she rushed past it he wouldn't register the way her tone was off. "Well, that's good. But what's going on, then?"

She crossed her arms over her chest as she waited for his response, trying to shield herself from the bareness and vulnerability she was feeling any way she could. She watched as he laced his fingers together, and started to twiddle his thumbs.

"Nothing exciting," he told her with a shrug, as his eyes moved around the room and focused on anything that wasn't her. "It's just - me and my ex-wife have a son together. I watch him during the day and do stuff for school while she's at work, and then she comes home and takes him in the evenings, and I go and do anything I couldn't do during the day. And lately, on days when my ex knows I have somewhere to be - like teaching here, or if I have a meeting or appointment or anything - she's coming home later and later. And it's not even because she's working more hours, which I could kind of understand and be okay with. She's out with friends, or getting something to eat, or shopping or whatever. And I have my son, so I'm stuck. And I end up being late almost everywhere I go."

She frowned.

"I know she needs time for herself, and with friends," he continued. "I know that. But, I don't know. It would be nice if she considered what I have goin' on, sometimes.

"Have you talked to her about it?"

He laughed once, and looked down at the floor.

"Yeah, I tried. It's gotten worse since then."

She suddenly felt like an asshole for getting on his back about being late.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. She thought it probably sounded stupid, but she didn't know what else to say. And she  _was_  sorry. Sorry that she assumed he was being unprofessional, and sorry that other people in class were talking about it and might think the same as she did.

She even felt a strong urge to stand up and tell her peers they were wrong, and explain to them what really was going on. But it wasn't her place.

"You don't have to be sorry," he said with a wave of his hand. "It's not your fault. It's my shit to deal with. And I  _am_  trying to deal with it. Trust me, I feel bad for always showing up fifteen minutes past the start of class."

"Don't feel bad," she told him, moving so she could try and catch his eye. When she finally did, her skin immediately began to warm again, but she needed him to look at her and know that she was serious, and honest. "Please, don't. Because it's not your fault, either. You're not late because you don't care, or because you're being lazy. You're late because you're being a good dad. And you should never feel bad for that."

He paused for a moment as he took in her words, and then he nodded. A brief smile passed over his lips.

"Thanks, Michonne."

She dug her nails into her thigh as a distraction, so she could block out his voice saying her name, and avoid another bout of tumbling in her stomach, or a second trance, which would bring them back to the same sluggish awkwardness that had engulfed them earlier.

"Of course."

They both let the room fall silent, taking a breath before they moved on to the next part of their night.

"Should we begin?" he asked, after a handful of second had passed.

She inhaled and exhaled one more time. Then, she looked up at him and smiled politely.

"Yes," she said. "Let's."

She hated the way her hands shook as she went to pull in her chair towards the table, and how her heart still thundered and pounded in her chest.

She took in Rick beside her. She saw him bounce his knee incessantly, and observed the way his cheeks were still flushed pink, and decided to call them even.

The hour seemed to drag on. Probably because she was hyper-aware of every second, of every word and breath of the man beside her. Because she couldn't stop looking at the way his hands and fingers moved as he drew and showed her this and that. Because she couldn't stop thinking of his eyes, and the way they had looked at her earlier in the evening, blue and bright - like an ocean that was on fire.

Their interactions were clunky, and conversation came in stops and starts because neither one of them seemed to be able to find the right words to say to the other. He did help her, but she was so tense the entire time that her muscles began to ache.

The sense of relief she felt when the clock finally read 9:30 was indescribable. She rapidly began to gather up her things, telling him she was tired and couldn't wait to go home and hop into bed.

What she  _really_  couldn't wait for was the bottle of wine she was going to open when she got back to her apartment, and the phone call she was going to make to Sasha where they were going to talk about anything  _but_ art and tutoring and everything that had gone on tonight.

(There was no way in  _hell_  she was telling Sasha about the trance and the fluttering in the stomach and the five seconds where all she wanted in the world was for Rick Grimes to kiss her.)

Her and Rick stood up at the same time, picking up their belongings and heading towards the door. They bid each other goodnight and he moved to turn out the lights. She was about to turn from him when he said her name.

"Hey, Michonne?"

_Don't think about the name_ , she demanded of herself.  _Don't you dare think about the way he says your name._

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, and hummed in question.

"I know we're doing this every other week," he began, "but my ex is taking my son and staying with her parents for the weekend, so I'll be free next week, if you want to get together and have me help you out. But like I said, I don't want to take up all your Fridays, and you might have plans. So it's no big deal if you don't want to, or can't."

She meant to say no. Because she didn't want to. She didn't even want to have another one of these tutoring sessions, let alone  _more_  than she was originally scheduled for. Hell, she didn't know if she wanted to take this  _class_  anymore, after tonight.

And she  _couldn't_  either, because she  _did_  already have plans next Friday. Her, Sasha, and their friends Maggie and Andrea, were going to go to this new restaurant that had just opened downtown. They'd already made reservations and everything.

She couldn't go, she didn't want to go, and she was going to say no.  _She meant to say no._

"Sure. Next week could work," she murmured, almost on impulse. Like it was an instinct, or a reflex. Something she had no power against.

"Great," he said with a nod. "Next Friday it is."

He hit the lights, and the room went black. They walked out into the dimly-lit hallway and he locked the door behind him, and then turned to her.

"See you Tuesday?" he asked.

She smiled, but inside her, her gut was churning.

"See you Tuesday."

He grinned at her one more time, and then turned to walk down the hall, away from her. She turned in the opposite direction, and walked slowly towards the front of the building. She still felt unsteady. Like she could've fallen over at any moment.

She glanced over her shoulder after a minute. When she saw that he had turned the corner, was no longer in this hallway, and couldn't see her anymore, she relaxed for the first time since she'd first saw him earlier that night.

She stopped and leaned her back against the wall, setting her bag on the floor and then dropping her head into her hands.

"Holy shit," she mumbled.

_Holy shit, what had she gotten herself into?_

* * *

She began to look forward to Fridays.

Not because they signaled the start of the weekend, or because she got to hang out with her friends. In fact, the Fridays she spent with Sasha, Maggie, Andrea, and whoever else tagged along, weren't the ones she looked forward to the most.

She began to look forward to Fridays - more specifically,  _every other_  Friday. Because every other Friday, she got to spend time alone with Rick Grimes.

And she  _hated_ herself for it. She knew she shouldn't be so eager to see him. Because it was stupid -  _idiotic_  - and he was her teacher and a crush would never amount to anything, so why have one in the first place? But she couldn't help it.

There was just something about him. Something about the way he taught her so gently and patiently, loved the art and what he was doing. How much and how purely he adored his son, and how devoted of a father he was. (His son's name was Carl, she had found out. He was two, had big, blue eyes and freckles just like his dad, and after seeing a photo of him on Rick's phone, she'd decided he was the cutest two-year-old she'd ever seen.)

There was something about the way he was so calm and measured when dealing with ex-wife, who she heard about from time to time, if he needed to vent. How he tried to cause the least amount of trouble with her he could, and always had what was best for his son at the front of his mind.

There was something about the way he carried himself, about how open and friendly he was once you got to know him. How he cared about the people around him - whether it be his students, a friend, or a family member.

He was a  _good_  person, to his core. Every time they met up, he revealed more of himself to her, and she had yet to find something she didn't like.

And that wasn't even mentioning how attractive he was. She didn't know how she hadn't noticed it when she first met him, or when Sasha pointed it out to her. Every time she saw him, she found something else about him that she found downright  _beautiful_. She'd noticed his voice and eyes first, and the list of things she loved looking at on him had grown incessantly ever since. Like his strong jaw - clean-shaven or scruffy, it didn't matter - and the way it clenched slightly when he concentrated. Or his hands, calloused from all of his work. And the way he walked, legs bowed, each step slow, strong, and purposeful.

So, she couldn't help it. Even though her brain and rationale screamed at her that this was a terrible idea and could only have an unhappy ending, they were nothing up against her emotions and her heart.

She had a huge-ass crush on her teacher - on Rick Grimes - and she couldn't help it.

It was her secret, of course. Telling Rick wasn't an option she could even remotely entertain. And there was no way in hell she was mentioning it to Sasha. The woman dished out enough teasing about her having a hidden, hot-for-teacher kink as it was; she couldn't even imagine how bad it would get if she actually admitted she liked Rick.

She kept it to herself, buried deep-down, where she could forget about it most of time. It tended to rear its head whenever her mind wandered at the office, or when she was swamped with work at home, papers strewn out and covering nearly her entire kitchen table. It sometimes crept to the forefront of her mind whenever she laid in bed and tried to fall asleep. It also crawled into her consciousness whenever she did assignments for art class. And it was all she could think about whenever she was in Rick's presence.

It was all she could think about at the moment, as he sat next to her on another one of their Friday evenings, trying to explain something about drawing in proportion.

She wasn't listening. She was focusing on the glasses he wore tonight, thick black frames and rectangular lenses that framed his eyes perfectly. They were the slightest bit loose, and slid down his nose sometimes when he looked down and focused on what he was teaching her. He kept having to push them back into place with the tip of his left index finger. She kept having to clench her fists together to resist the urge to push them up for him.

"Michonne?"

Her ears perked up at the sound of her name. She blinked hard, and then looked up at him, putting a grin on her face and trying to pretend she was paying attention to what he was saying.

"You okay?" he asked, staring at her with a curious look on his face.

"Yeah!" she assured him, her tone light. "Why wouldn't I be?"

He motioned to the blank paper in front of her.

"You haven't drawn anything that I've asked you to."

She glanced down at the untouched white, and the lonely, yellow pencil laying across it.

"Shit," she whispered under her breath.

"So I ask again - is everything alright?"

She scrambled, wracking her brain for some sort of excuse, so she didn't have to tell him she'd been too busy gazing at him longingly to focus on his instructions.

"Yeah, I'm fine," she began, trying not to hesitate or stutter too much. "I, uh...I had - I had...plans tomorrow, but the person just texted me and canceled. So, I'm kinda...bummed, I guess. I was texting them," she said, reaching into her bag in what she hoped was a sneaky move, and showed her phone to him, praying that he believed she'd had it the whole time, and had been hiding it from him.

His eyes darted to the phone, and he hummed quietly.

"Am I gonna have to yell at you, like the first day?"

His tone was so serious that her mouth almost dropped open in shock, but she looked up from her phone in time to see the teasing glint in his eye. She smirked.

"No, Professor Grimes. I'll put my phone away now."

They both chuckled softly, and the sound of his laugh made her stomach flutter.

A beat of silence passed as she tossed her phone back in her purse. When she gathered herself again, she found him staring off into space, rolling his pencil back and forth on the tabletop with his hand. He seemingly hadn't noticed she was ready, and she was about inform him they could start again, when he spoke.

"Was it a guy?"

She stopped, and her brain stumbled.

That was  _not_ what she was expecting him to say.

"Excu-...what?"

"Was it a guy?" he repeated, looking down into his lap. "Like a date, y'know?"

"Oh," she breathed soundlessly. Her eyes were wide as she gazed at his profile.

How in the  _fuck_ did she answer that question?

He lifted his head when she didn't respond, and his face fell as he took in her expression.

"Shit," he muttered, mirroring the reaction she had when she saw her blank paper and realized she hadn't done anything he'd told her to. Like they'd both been caught red-handed, sneaking in and poking around at something they shouldn't.

"Shit, I'm…"

He paused, and ran a hand over his face before threading his fingers through his brown curls. She could see his skin begin to turn pink as a blush crept up his chest and neck, and over his cheeks.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked that. Don't answer it, because it's none of my business."

She stayed quiet, still not knowing what to say.

He picked up his pencil again, and began to rapidly tap it on the side of his sketchbook.

"I just wanted to reassure you, or something."

She felt confusion seep into her brain at his words.

"Reassure me?" she asked, curious.

"Yeah," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth. She could tell he was still embarrassed.

"If it was...you know...I meant to say that he probably had a good reason for cancelling. And I'm sure he'll reschedule."

Her brows pulled together.

"How do you know that?"

"Well, I mean," he began, glancing at her tentatively, "you're smart, and funny. Talented. Friendly, as long as the person's on your good side."

He caught her eye, and she smiled at him. They both laughed awkwardly.

"And well, look at you."

She looked at him, eyes expectant and urging him to continue.

"Look at me  _what_?"

He shrugged.

"I mean, just,  _look at you_."

He gestured at her vaguely, up and down.

Oh.  _Oh_.

"Oh."

Her heart was racing in her chest. Could this mean…

_No_ , she told herself immediately.  _No. Shut up. Shut up, Michonne. He doesn't like you just because he thinks you're pretty. You think that one cashier at the grocery store is pretty. Do you want to date him? No. Get that thought out of your head._

"God," he muttered suddenly. "Did I say that out loud? Please tell me that I didn't say that out loud. Or that this is a nightmare and I'm gonna wake up in ten seconds."

"It's okay," she tried to reassure him, attempting to think straight as her mind reeled and her blood sped through her veins.

"I'm sorry," he apologized again, despite her words. "I shouldn't have said that."

_See_ , she thought,  _he regrets saying it. Maybe he doesn't even think you're that pretty. He definitely doesn't have a crush on you._

"What I keep meaning to say, is, any guy would want to go out with you. They'd be crazy not to. And if this guy is lucky enough to get a shot, he won't miss it. I know I wouldn't."

Holy shit.  _Holy shit._

Her heart was pounding so fiercely, that if he paid attention, she was convinced he'd be able to hear it.

"If I was put in a similar situation!" he exclaimed suddenly, trying to tack the words on to the end of his last statement. "I mean if I was put in a similar situation, I wouldn't miss it."

She couldn't think of a way to respond, because she was currently in too much emotional shock and distress to think of anything coherent to say. She just watched as he pinched the bridge of his perfect nose, and let out a loud sigh.

"God, can we get back to teachin' before I put my foot in my fuckin' mouth again?"

He tried to laugh, but it came out stiff and not-quite-right. She managed a nod in his direction.

"Okay. Okay, good. So, let's see where we left off," he said, picking up his pencil and turning away from her.

The rest of the lesson was painful. He kept trying to crack corny, dumb jokes in an attempt to lighten the mood, but they fell flat every time.

And she still hadn't said anything, because she was using every bit of her brain to make a decision.

Rick put them both out of their misery and ended the hour-long session early, mumbling something about Carl, even though she knew he didn't have his son this weekend. They gathered up their things silently, and then moved to leave the room. They paused when they reached the door, and she watched as Rick flicked off the lights, and turned towards her.

This was usually where they said goodbye. It was always quick and light and friendly, but had started growing longer with each passing Friday-night meetup, as they kept finding more things about the class to talk about. They'd even started discussing things outside of art - random things, like the weather or television shows or something one of their friends or Carl had done.

Tonight, though, they faced each other without a word. He, because he was still morbidly embarrassed. She could tell because his skin was still flushed a reddish hue.

But she wasn't speaking because she was still trying to make her decision.

After about fifteen seconds of empty air, he reached up to scratch the back of his neck, and breathed in through his nose.

"Michonne…"

And there it was again. The way he said her name. Deeply, slowly. Country-Georgia twang drawing out the 'o' sound.

It decided her.

"Hey, Rick?"

His gaze shot to hers, eyes wide. He hadn't expected to hear her voice.

"Yeah?"

"Do you want to go out tomorrow night?"

Her heart wasn't racing anymore. Instead, she felt strangely calm. She supposed she was confident in her decision. Confident in what he would answer.

That confidence began to dwindle the longer he took to respond to her.

"Rick?" she asked slowly, as he stared at her. She watched his expression begin to dim, and she immediately realized that she'd misread him, and made a mistake.

_Shit_.

He chewed on his bottom lip, and looked away.

"Michonne…" he murmured.

_Shit. You idiot._

She cut him off as soon as she could.

"Oh! No problem," she said, her words rapid and nervous. "Just asking. You know, to like - hang out, or something. No worries, though. I got it. It's cool, it's cool. See you Tuesday, yeah?"

She didn't even look at him before she turned around and began to walk away. But before she could take two steps, he reached out, grabbed her arm, and turned her back towards him.

She felt a jolt traverse her body as he touched her, and glanced at those long fingers she'd admired so much wrapped around her wrist, before looking down to the floor.

"I'm your teacher," he explained, "and it wouldn't be...appropriate, I guess. It's really against etiquette, and I'm still so new to the art community around here, and teaching, and I just don't - "

"It's okay, Rick," she said, making sure her lips were secured in a tight smile before finally lifting her head and looking at him. His blue eyes looked troubled, and it only made her feel more mortified.

"And I don't want it to cause problems with the other students, if they would have concerns over grading. Especially with something as subjective as art, like you know. But - "

"I understand," she assured him, so distracted that she didn't even realize he was about to say something else. "Don't worry about it, Rick. Forget I said anything. See you on Tuesday."

With that, she pulled her arm from his grasp, and rushed towards the exit, trying her best to resist the urge to tear up from embarrassment. He called her name, but she determined she was far enough away that she could plausibly pretend that she hadn't heard him, so she didn't turn around.

* * *

"I did something really stupid, Sash."

"Oh, God. Did you call Mike back up or something?"

Michonne sat up from where she was laying on her bed, and looked down at the phone set on her comforter.

"What? I haven't talked to him in like, five years."

She heard her friend exhale in relief through speaker phone.

"Good. I still have nightmares from having to get you through that on-again/off-again horror of a relationship for the first few years after we met."

Michonne rolled her eyes.

"Stop being dramatic. It wasn't that bad."

"Uh, yeah it was."

"No, it wasn - wait," Michonne stopped, abruptly, shaking her head. "This isn't what I called you to talk about at one in the morning."

She hadn't wanted to tell Sasha what happened. Or at least not right away, while the hurt was still fresh. She'd planned on stuffing it inside and hiding it away, until she didn't feel anything about it anymore. But it kept rolling around in her brain, and she couldn't sleep. She needed to tell  _someone_ , and she trusted Sasha with everything.

So she'd grabbed her phone from her nightstand, and dialed the number she's had memorized for years, now.

"Then spill, girl," Sasha prompted. "I'm waiting."

She hesitated, and stared at her phone. She hoped desperately that Sasha didn't give her too much shit for this.

"Michonne?"

"Okay. So, you know how I had tutoring with Rick tonight?"

"Of course. How is Professor Hot Stuff? I assume since you're calling me at 1 AM to talk about him, he yelled at you again or something."

"No, he didn't do that," Michonne muttered.

"Hmm, okay. My interest is piqued. What stupid thing did you do while with Mr. Grimes that didn't end with you getting yelled at?"

"I kind of...asked him out."

She squeezed her eyes shut at her admission, and waited for Sasha's answer. When it didn't come, she grew nervous, fearing her friend was trying to come up with some amazingly snarky, teasing comment.

"If you make fun of me for this, we're officially not friends anymore," Michonne warned.

"I'm not...making fun of you," Sasha said hesitantly.

"Then say something!"

"I'm...confused. I thought you hated him?"

"I did," Michonne told her with a groan. "But then he started being...nice and stuff. And patient and helpful and smart. And I realized his voice is really nice and soothing, and his hands look really strong, and his eyes are really blue - "

"Don't forget about the perfect nose."

"I told you, if you make fun of me…"

"I'm not making fun!" Sasha defended. "You're the one who said it!"

"Whatever. Anyways, I guess I kind of have a crush on him. And then, tonight, I wasn't paying attention to what he was telling me to do."

"Why?"

"He was distracting me, okay?!" Michonne admitted. "He kept licking his lips, and I had a perfect view of his profile -"

"Oh my God, you've got it  _bad_."

"I know, okay? And he asked me why I wasn't doing anything, and if I was okay. I wasn't going to tell him the real reason, obviously, so I made up the excuse that I had plans tomorrow night that had just got canceled and was bummed. And he asked me if I had a  _date_."

"Holy shit," Sasha said, and the tone in her voice let Michonne know that Sasha had started to assume the same thing she had at the time.

" _I know_. And I didn't say anything, because how the hell do you answer that, and he got all embarrassed and thought I was offended. And then he literally, literally told me that he'd asked because I'm smart and friendly and talented and  _beautiful_  and he was sure that the guy would reschedule because if he had the opportunity he knew he wouldn't miss it."

" _Holy shit_."

"I know!" Michonne shouted into the stillness of her dark bedroom, and jumped at the loudness of the sound in the quiet room. "So I thought he liked me, too."

"Um, yeah. Obviously."

"So as we're leaving, I ask him if he wants to go out tomorrow night."

"And?"

"And he told me no!"

" _What_? After he said all  _that_?"

"Yes, even after all that."

"Did he say straight up 'no', or did he give you some excuse?"

"He said something about him being my teacher and it being unethical and stuff, but I don't know. I feel like he just didn't want to and was trying to be nice about it."

"Aw, babe," Sasha whispered, and she could hear the sympathy in her friend's voice; she appreciated it, but hated that she needed it. "You don't know that for sure. Maybe he was being honest?"

"I don't know," she said dejectedly, shrugging her shoulders. "I just...I don't really want to try and figure it out, to be honest. I want to forget it ever happened. Sash, it was one of the most embarrassing things that's ever happened to me in my life."

"What are you gonna do Tuesday? And for the rest of the semester?"

"I have  _no idea_. What the fuck do I say when I walk in there, Sasha?"

"Maybe you could - "

Suddenly, a loud beep rang out through the phone, and she heard Sasha mutter something she couldn't make out under her breath.

"Shit, Mich. My brother is calling me. I'll get rid of him and then call you right back, okay?"

Michonne sighed. She knew how paranoid Tyreese got when Sasha didn't answer the phone, no matter when it was or where she was or what she was doing. She glanced over at the alarm clock next to her bed, and saw it was almost two in the morning.

"Don't worry about it, Sasha," she told her friend. "It's so late. You don't have to call me back."

"Are you sure? I don't mind. I'm not tired."

"No, it's fine.  _I'm_ tired, and should be going back to sleep. We'll talk more about it tomorrow, I promise."

"Alright. If you're sure. We can get lunch or something. There's that new Japanese restaurant we need to try."

"Yeah, that sounds good."

"Great. Love ya, Mich."

"Love you, too, babe."

With that, she heard another loud beep come from her phone, as Sasha hung up. She stared at her phone blankly for a few minutes, and then picked it up and plugged it back into her charger. Then, she laid back down in bed, pulled the covers over her head, and fought the urge to scream.

She'd lied to Sasha. She wasn't tired, and she knew she wasn't going to be falling asleep anytime soon.

Her mind was still moving at a thousand miles per hour. She didn't know what she was going to do on Tuesday. She honestly didn't know why she'd asked him out in the first place; sure, she had a crush on him, but asking one's teacher out was an objectively  _stupid_ move to make.

Now, she had a huge mess on her hands, which she was helpless to fix. She groaned.

Before closing her eyes, she reached out and grabbed her phone again. Opening the internet browser, she searched her school and went to the index of faculty members on their website. Before she knew it, Rick's face was staring back at her.

She remember when she hadn't seen what Sasha had. When she hadn't seen anything at all. She wished she still didn't see anything.

Because, to make matters ten times worse, she  _still_  had her huge fucking stubborn crush on Rick Grimes.

* * *

She avoided Rick Grimes for the rest of the semester. Like he was a criminal, or sycophant, or had some infectious disease that could've killed her if she got too close.

She came in the first Tuesday after that disastrous Friday night three minutes before class started, with headphones in. She didn't take them out until he rushed in ten minutes late, walked to the center of the room, and began speaking. And after class was over, she put her headphones back in and rushed from the room before he could even try to catch her gaze.

And there was  _no way in hell_  she was seeing him outside of a group setting ever again. Three days before they were supposed to have their next session, she emailed him and made up a lie about having work meetings every Friday evening for the next few months, meaning tutoring couldn't continue. And she knew he couldn't switch days because of his responsibilities with his son.

He sent her a three-paragraph long email in response, but she only read the first line and the last line ('I understand,' and 'I'm sorry we won't be able to continue our sessions,') before deleting it.

She managed to keep her grades up, since Rick had been able to teach her a lot in their handful of meetings, and her basic skills were now strong. By the time it was time to turn in their final project, she would only need a B to receive an A overall in the class.

She walked in the room for her last class expecting an experience like any of the others she'd had over the past few weeks. Rick was early today, and had arrived before her. Still, she kept her headphones in and made sure not to make eye contact with him as she walked to her seat.

When all her classmates arrived and Rick stood up, she turned off her music and put her phone away. He gave a short, pleasant speech - thanking them for being such a good class and having such a willingness to learn, commending them on the quality of their final projects, and again thanking them for making his first teaching experience such a positive one. Then, he passed back their graded projects.

She made sure not to look at him when he handed hers back. Before opening the folder that had her write-up in it, which was where her grade was written, she took a deep breath.

When she finally opened the folder and saw the grade, she smiled. She'd received a 94 percent.

With that, Rick dismissed the class for the last time, an hour and ten minutes early. A number of people stayed behind to thank him or ask him a question, but she only stood, gathered her things, and left the room, for the last time.

She was halfway down the hall, and about to put in her headphones, when she heard quick footsteps behind her.

"Michonne, wait!"

She turned around and the sound of her name without thinking, and saw Rick jogging after her.

_Shit_.

"Michonne," he said again, slowing up and coming to a stop when he reached her. "I'm glad I caught you. I've been trying to catch you for weeks, honestly."

"Yeah," she murmured awkwardly. "I've been busy, I guess."

"It's alright," he assured her, even though she was sure he knew the real reason why she was avoiding him. "I've just wanted - "

"Don't you have people back there who want to talk to you?" she interrupted, moving her head to the side and peering in the direction of the classroom. "Where is everyone?"

"I told them I had to use the restroom," he admitted. "Because I needed to catch up with you. Look."

He paused, and looked over his shoulder for a moment. Suddenly, he grabbed her elbow, and moved with her around a corner and into a hall out of sight of their classroom.

He let her go once they were done moving, and she leaned back against the wall. Her arm tingled where he had been touching her.

His extra height caused him to tower over her as he stood before her, and she had to tilt her chin up to look at him.

"Did you read the email I sent after you ended our tutoring sessions?"

"No," she answered. It was blunt, but it was honest.

"Okay," he mumbled, looking down at the floor and nodding his head. "Okay. I understand why you didn't."

He breathed in slowly, and then rose his eyes to look at her again.

"And I'm assuming since you didn't stop by my desk at the end of class, that you didn't read the note I wrote on the rubric of your final?"

"That would be correct," she confirmed.

"Okay. Okay."

Silence fell over them. She sighed, and closed her eyes.

"Rick, if this is about what happened last time, I don't really - "

"Hey, Michonne?"

She opened her eyes when he spoke, and the look on his face made her heart leap.

He was looking at her like she was the only thing in the entire world.

"Yeah?" she breathed.

"Do you want to go out sometime?"

Her jaw dropped. What was he talking about? Was he teasing her or something? What the fuck?

"You said - " she stuttered. "You said…"

"...that I couldn't go out with you because I was your teacher," he finished. "Well, final grades were due at three this afternoon, and I turned mine in. So, currently, it's about…" he trailed off, to squint at the silver watch he always wore.

She glanced down at her phone, which was still in her hand.

"7:25," she informed him breathlessly.

"7:25," he repeated, dropping his wrist, and smiling softly. "So, as far as I can tell, I'm not your teacher anymore. And the thing is, I meant all the stuff I said that day. About you being smart, and talented, and beautiful. Any guy would want to go out with you. Including me. I love spending time with you. I love just, being around you. And I'd be crazy to not want to explore that further.

"So, Ms. Morgan," he said, finally. "Would you do me the enormous pleasure of going out with me? And not just to hang out. On a  _date_ , if that's okay with you."

She froze for a moment, because she was having trouble breathing. She almost couldn't believe this was happening. After weeks and weeks of telling herself how stupid she was for asking him out, and thinking that she'd read him completely wrong. She almost didn't know how to respond.

But then, he smiled at her. That huge, gorgeous smile, that lit up his whole face and made the creases in the corners of his eyes appear. The smile that had captivated her so many times during class and during their Friday night meetings.

Her stomach flipped, and she couldn't help but smile back at him. Suddenly, she knew exactly how to answer him.

"Yeah," she told him, reaching out and taking one of his hands that hung between them in hers.

"Yeah?" he asked in confirmation, the smile on his face somehow growing.

She squeezed his hand.

"Yeah. I'd really like that."

**Author's Note:**

> I might continue this. so let me know what you think about that.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and reviewing! And be sure to check out all the other Trope Thursday fics written by the authors of the Richonne Writing Network at Richonne Just Desserts! They've all been so wonderful.
> 
> xoxo,  
> Rebekah


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